


Civil War

by PinguMew98



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinguMew98/pseuds/PinguMew98
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D./Marvel Civil War AU.  S.H.I.E.L.D. is fighting on two fronts: Hydra, long believed to no longer exist, and the Superhuman Registration Act, requiring superheroes register with the government.  Some superheroes (and agents) believed they were above the law and took matters into their own hands.  Now S.H.I.E.L.D. must utilize every man to accomplish the mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Division

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I’m not a fan of alternate universes; generally speaking, I don’t really read them and I have never really considered writing them. However, I had a moment of epiphany - since this is a comic book based show, and alternate realities are a normal part of comic book-ness, I will digress into that universe for my own ends. As such, I will fall into an established canon: Marvel Civil War. Therefore, assume that all events of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. have occurred up until End of the Beginning, since naturally Hydra would use the calamity of the Stamford, CT incident to come out of the woodwork. Italics are flashbacks.

Simmons was not a doctor. She never recited the Hippocratic Oath. However, she never to recite the sacred words to conceptualize the intent that taking another human’s life was inconceivable. But S.H.I.E.L.D. needed every soldier if could find. Uncooperative superheroes needed to fall in line; and superheroes took a lot of manpower to clean up after. Additionally, with all the superheroes fighting each other, they needed someone to keep the tide of Hydra from overtaking the world. And thus, FitzSimmons attended basic.

* * *

 

Jemma popper a pill into her mouth. 'Chalk up another win for science' Jemma thought, with a tinge of bitterness. A mild mannered scientist turned unfeeling soldier with a single pill (although exposure to radioactive material is a far more potent and permanent solution). With one pill, Jemma’s feelings became deadened. With that one pill, Jemma stepped into the sun for another mission, medical bag in one hand, rifle in the other.

_“Are you kidding me Simmons? Registration?” Skye had a look of complete incredulity on her face. Simmons raised her hands in the air as though shrugging. “I don’t know Skye. Laws are laws. And these are just American ones. Captain Britain doesn’t have to follow them so why should we care what one country wants?”_

_“Registration is just the beginning. I mean, God, this is how the Holocaust started, just the laws of Germany and then, next thing you know, they are rounding up and killing the Jews.” Skye retorted._

_“That’s an unfair comparison. I hate how people have to relate everything back to World War II. Not everything is the Holocaust, or Hitler, or Hydra.” Simmons’ voice was a mixture of exasperation and anger._

_“Granted. But this IS that!” Skye practically yelled, emphasizing her words by smacking her hand down on the table between them. “First they had to register, then they were segregated into ghettoes, and then finally exterminated.” She felt her face flush with anger. She might not have had the best education but she had the internet._

_“But America is not Wehrmacht Germany. You need to register to own a handgun, or operate a motor vehicle, or even own a pet. People need to be held accountable, so too should superheroes.” Simmons replied, now pacing across the Bus’s living area._

_“Regardless of ‘super-ness’ or not, they are people too. They aren’t handguns or motor vehicles. They are people that live and interact with us, and they shouldn’t have to be subjected to second hand treatment.”_

_“People register all the time. Professionals need to prove they are capable and know the laws of their practice.”_

_“But they aren’t professionals. They are average people put in extraordinary circumstances.”_

_“All the more reason why they should be trained and licensed. Has Stamford not taught us that?” An uncomfortable silence settled in between the two women._

_“This is still insanity. Tracking people’s very movements? Making sure they’re properly compliant.”_

_“It’s not like this is all together new. S.H.I.E.L.D. already retains a database of individuals with powers.”_

_“Much good it did Chan…”_

_“For the love of god Skye, a kid detonated the equivalent of a nuclear bomb in the middle of a suburban elementary school!” Simmons couldn’t restrain her pent up anger. It was so logical, why wasn’t Skye understanding the necessity of it. “Besides, it’s law.”_

_“Said the good German.”_

_“Are you honestly comparing me to a Nazi sympathizer?”_

_Skye stood up violently from her seat (which she had magically been able to stay seated in during the whole altercation), causing the chair to tumble loudly and dramatically behind her. Fitz, May, and Coulson all peered in on the two, roused by the chair’s noise. Ignoring the onlookers, she looked directly into Simmons’ eyes, “Yes.”_

_“Skye…” Simmons voice was quiet, barely a whisper, “This is not a ‘coffee or tea’ debate. This is a ‘democracy or anarchy’ debate. This is ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. or Rising Tide.’ What side do you think the Strategic Homeland Intervention: Environment and Logistics Division is going to be on?”_

* * *

 

Inured from her sense of feelings, Jemma sighted in on her rifle, the head of her next Hydra victim festooning her crosshairs, but like they say, ‘cut off one head, two more appear.’


	2. Antipathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I hope you enjoy. Italics signify flashbacks.

The civil war had become far more bitter and contentious than she could have ever imagined. Plenty of other nations had begun adopting similar registration acts. Registration enforcement was yet another wedge driven into the team still reeling from Ward’s secret allegiance to Hydra. Once the orders had come down from higher, Skye had left (covertly and in the middle of the night of course). Shortly after Skye’s disappearance, the Rising Tide made marked gains in the extraction of sensitive intelligence from S.H.I.E.L.D. servers (surprise…).

There wasn’t a day that passed that some incident or another was occurring. It felt to Simmons like she hadn’t slept in years. The day Coulson pressed a rifle into both Fitz and Simmons hands reminded her of the duties and responsibilities she was expected to uphold. She had barely ever held a rifle, let alone learned to fire one. She hadn’t been trained for this. But she soon learned shooting was, in its essence, methodical and precise, with just a hint of intuition; not too unlike science. And the slow, methodical figure-8 her sights danced when she aimed brought her an odd sense of calm.

* * *

  
Jemma stumbled back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. base. She was ravenously hungry but willed herself to pass by the mess as she ambled to the armory to clean her weapon. Routine was how she dealt with what her life had become. Also, the silence as she methodically cleaned every inch of her rifle was one of the few moments in her day where Jemma was calm and could become Dr. Jemma Simmons again.

The dry heaving began before she had even made it to the armory. She had learned long ago that once the magic pills wore off, the sudden assault of emotions made her sick. And she had learned that it was the price she must pay to conduct herself appropriately. So she sat there, dry heaving painfully as she felt again: the fear, the anxiety, the guilt. Today was worse than most days; remembering the painful events of the split (especially her fight with Skye), the betrayal by Ward, the day Coulson looked into her eyes and handed her a rifle with the intent stamped in his eyes about how she would use that rifle to take another life - all of these had been repressed by the magic pill, and now she had to deal with it. Although, it wasn’t actually dealing; it was allowing oneself to be consumed with emotion without actually confronting those feelings.

Today’s dry heaving necessitated her to forgo cleaning her weapon in favor of holding herself up in her room. But today was not like the others. Safe in her room, memories faded in and out of her conscious thought.

_“Oh god, Fitz.” Simmons ran alongside a gurney. On top, her best friend was laid out, already more tube than man, as she watched helplessly – like she was in Zurich, watching Skye die in front of her._

Jemma’s dry heaves shook her entire body. Her pain was so intense, she could only curl up in the fetal position, praying the moment passed quicker.

_“You’re always so fucking noble!” Skye yelled._

_“What’s that supposed to mean?” Simmons yelled back._

_“I don’t know, maybe – ‘Oh look, a grenade. Why don’t I just smother it with my body.’ Or, ‘I’m infected with an alien virus, let me jump out the back of a fucking plane.’”_

_Simmons had an unusually dangerous look in her eye. In a low voice, she looked at Skye, jabbing her finger into Skye’s chest. “You do not say one word about what I have needed to sacrifice for this team. I watched you die, multiple times. I watched Ward as we slipping into the ocean. I watched Fitz press that god-damn button. No, you do not get to judge my actions, especially when your blood has covered these hands.”_

Jemma was crying. Her body was spasming and contorting with the painful memories.

_Skye stopped, a quizzical look upon her face as Simmons thrust her hands towards the hacker’s face, as though those same hands were still covered with blood. The tension was thick. Simmons saw Skye’s jaw grind, slowly, methodically, as though she was pondering. The hacker opened her mouth but before words came out, a series of loud beeping erupted to their right. Immediately, Simmons rushed to the window to see Fitz going into cardiac arrest. She pounded on the glass, tears flowing unabashedly down her face, at a loss for words._

“Make it stop” Jemma whined pitifully. Her hands were firmly clamped over her ears as though she could block the agonizing memories.

_A comforting hand rested delicately on her shoulder. Instinctively, she turned into the hand to sob into Skye’s neck. The déjà vu was almost as crushing as the image of seeing her best friend dying in front of her._

Jemma knew Skye (or Fitz) wasn’t there. But her imagination was so heightened since she was finally feeling again, it was as though she could physically feel their hands on her shoulders. That presence was enough to start to calm her down.

_The hacker’s laugh filled the Bus’s common area. Simmons looked up to see Skye behind the bar, pouring unlabeled mystery liquors into glasses and handing them to Coulson, Ward, and Fitz. It appears their facial expressions were hysterical. Skye’s head was thrown back in delight, the biggest smile plastered across her face. Simmons hadn’t realized she was staring until she caught Skye’s eyes. They held each other’s gaze for, what felt like eternity but in actuality was probably only a second, before Skye gave the scientist a quick wink prior to returning to her mixing._

She was exhausted. Not only had she had long day without food, but her purge of emotions had utterly drained her. The rational part of her brain started working again and it was telling her to get food. But Jemma couldn’t find the energy to lift herself off the ground. Instead, she rolled onto her back, arms outstretched, filling up as much space as she could.

“Doctor?” Jemma asked thin air.

“Yes Miss. Simmons.” Jemma replied to herself. Sometimes, after a particularly rough day, talking to herself helped her parse through her thoughts. “What was that all about?” Never had Jemma experienced a happy memory when coming off of her deadened state.

“How do you mean Miss. Simmons? I witnessed the normal evolution of effects after the ingestion of FS643 Hypoxicodeine.”

Jemma slowly rolled onto her side. The last image, of Skye laughing and winking at her, she was convinced had broken the dangerous onslaught of emotions. It was as though one happy one had negated the overbearing negative ones. Jemma continued to sit up. The nausea was better, although she was still sore. Slowly, she climbed in bed. As she closed her eyes, the image of Skye flashing her a wink remained.


	3. The Fall

Jemma carefully made her way through the rubble of yet another demolished town. “Protecting people,” Jemma scoffed, sliding on her back down a particularly steep rock pile. “This is just raucous destruction.” At the bottom of her slide, Jemma heard a crack. Peering over her gear (currently resting safely on her stomach), she saw that her momentum and her foot had broken an outstretched arm buried beneath the debris. 

Jemma Simmons, S.H.I.E.L.D. Scientist, would have not have been able to display any emotion other than abject horror at what had just occurred.

Jemma Simmons, S.H.I.E.L.D. Soldier, could only think, ‘Thank god that wasn’t me.’

Lifting her gear off of her chest, Jemma continued her mission: Kill Hydra, report un-registered superheroes, save S.H.I.E.L.D. agents (but only if there was over a 60% chance they would make it). Metrics were important part of her mission; emotional ties only served to complicate things. In this turbulent time, focusing on what was simple and real was the only way to survive. When agents became emotionally compromised, they ended up dead because Hydra never hesitated.

Today’s mission did not require Jemma to take her rifle, a point that made her feel naked, unnerved, and exposed. Jemma Simmons, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., relied on that weapon to keep her alive. Her rifle was but another, necessary, function of who she was now. Its lack, its familiar weight no longer on her shoulder as it hung across her body, caused her stress. It wasn’t there, slapping almost painfully on her right hip; but that slap reminded her of who and what she needed to do. Today, it was forgone in favor of moving quickly through disputed territory (more reason, not less, to have a rifle) to try and help possible fallen Agents. 

Shouldering her bag, Jemma pressed towards the former town center. The town now lay in clusters of rubble which necessitated Jemma to thoroughly check the piles for hopefully, Agents, and not Hydra. One particular rock pile had a plethora of bodies strewn across it. Fastidiously, Jemma began making assessments of the bodies. S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents were fingerprinted so they could be added to the record of dead. Hydra agents were given another bullet in the head, to ensure their status as deceased.

Rolling over a dead soldier, Jemma gasped. Even through her deadened state, she registered the features of the soldier. Gingerly, Jemma brushed away errant strands of dark hair.   
“Oh god, Skye?” 

Snapping out of her daze, the scientist searched for the pulse point on Skye’s neck. She let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. Standing up, Jemma felt a rush as her vision began to fade out. Immediately she sat back down, forcing her head between her legs. Breathing slowly, steadily, her drug addled brain trying to formulate connections that her normal brain would: Skye, no longer S.H.I.E.L.D., presumably Hydra, lying amidst dead Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D., Skye, here, weak pulse, Skye…

“Simmons?” 

Jemma didn’t know how long she had been lost, but she looked up to see the hacker’s eyes were open and staring at her in disbelief. 

“What…” Skye trailed off as she took bearing of her surroundings. When she looked back at Jemma, there was a distinct air of anger. “What are you doing her Simmons? It’s fucking dangerous.” 

As it always seemed to be with the two women, when one got angry, the other retaliated in kind. 

“I should say so Skye. You, bloody well playing dead in a pile of corpses.” 

Forgetting that she was still recovering from a grey out, Jemma stood up suddenly, emotions, fueled by her mini-diatribe, driving her actions. The rush of blood from her head as she stood up caused her to pass out, her head making a sickening cracking sound as it connected with a rock on the ground.

"Shit!" Skye swore as she scrambled over the rubble to where Jemma lay motionless on the ground, blood flowing profusely from the wound on her head. "Fuck." 

Skye searched for something to staunch the bleeding. Seeing nothing adequate, she pressed her dirty hand to Jemma's head. With her free hand, Skye placed two fingers on Jemma's neck, searching for the steady thump along the carotid. In a way that would make a Sailor proud, Skye rattled off a litany of profanities as she hoped her lack of medical knowledge was the reason she did not feel a pulse. A relieved sigh slipped out of her mouth before she even processed the weak heartbeat of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent.

Gunfire erupted somewhere to the pair's left, fracturing sound and leaving a slight ring in Skye's ears. 

“If it’s not one thing…” Skye muttered as she grabbed the shoulder straps of the kevlar vest Jemma was wearing and drug her (haltingly, over five yard stretches) across the rocky terrain. Panting heavily, Skye attempted to get her bearings; made more difficult with the wizzes and pings of errant rounds impacting nearby.

She turned back to her injured friend to see Jemma’s eyes open, sitting up, pistol in hand. As Skye’s world fell into slow motion, her mouth dropped open (in the most comically impossible fashion), fixating on the mild mannered Brit aiming down the sights of her S.H.I.E.L.D. issued SIG Sauer P232. And as though someone suddenly hit play, Jemma had Skye by the front of her shirt; pulling her the exact opposite direction that Skye had been hauling her. Although the dead Hydra soldier slumped over the outcropping was new, there was disturbingly nagging feeling Skye had that it wasn’t a stray round that had slain him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had a hard time ironing this one out and I don’t think I’ve fully captured a lot of elements that I feel strongly about. I would gander that most fanfiction writers have not experienced military training and there's a lot that is lost in translation. For example: the sense of deep discomfort you get when you’ve become use to having a weapon daily and then, one day, just not having one. During my tour to Afghanistan, I never had to fire my weapon in combat, but when I returned, I freaked out every once in a while because I didn’t have my pistol attached at my hip. The weight of it, its sheer presence wherever you go for over seven months; it almost becomes a security blanket. Not feeling it is deeply disconcerting. I can only imagine a tour where an individual had to regularly use their weapon as experiencing this exponentially more, as they were witness to the weapon saving their, and their friends’, lives. I hoped to try and show a bit of that element of the military experience that is generally unmentioned by someone who hasn't experienced it.


	4. The Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Skye have to deal with the injuries they sustain when they were caught in the cross fire.

“Watch my back,”

Jemma ordered, tossing her pistol to Skye as she tore into her med bag. A grey out, bleeding from head contusion, possible infection; Jemma took mental note of her injuries. With the magic pills and the grey out, she probably suffered from hypovolemia and the head injury was only making it worse; worrying about infection would have to come later. First, she needed IV fluids.

“Hey Simmons,” Skye started, glancing at the scientist just in time to see her shove a needle into her arm, securing it with duct tape.

“Fuck! Did you just…” Jemma didn’t let Skye finish.

“Just keep watching my back Skye.”

She didn’t bother looking at the hacker and she kept rooting through her pack, searching for a powerful antibiotic, finding only doxycycline. She popped two and finally went rummaging again in her bag for sterile gauze to staunch her bleeding.

“Seriously Simmons,” Skye started again, agitation permeating her words.

“Skye we don’t have time to talk about, anything. I just need you to shut up for once and do the bloody mission without your underlying need to rebel.” Jemma snapped, irrationally irritated.

“Right. S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol. No questioning, just lock-step execution. Needing to control the situation.” Skye scoffed, even throwing in a mock salute, as she continued scanning the battlefield for potential enemies. (Although, who was enemy at this point was a dark shade of grey).

Skye’s words irritated Jemma, like sandpaper slowly scratching her brain. An involuntary shudder coursed through her body.

“Listen, I don’t need your shit right now.” Jemma said the words, but she didn’t want to say them. It was as though the magic pills replaced her generally demur self with an overly aggressive variant of her personality.

“You know what Simmons, I’ve had it with your…SHIT!”

Skye turned to yell at the Brit. Jemma looked up to bite back at Skye’s words, but noticed that the hacker was on the ground clutching her leg.

“Skye!”

Jemma scrambled over to assess the wound; the gauze for her own injuries now being used to put pressure on the leg bleed.

“Keep pressure on that” she instructed as she scooped up her pistol and searched for where the shot had come from. Seeing no potential enemies and with the hacker muttering a yet another impressive string of profanity, Jemma helped her off the ground, acting as a support as the pair limped off to the nearest shelter.

* * *

“Not an ideal situation right?”

Skype quipped. Jemma rested her back against the dilapidated building’s wall.

“No. Not ideal at all. I’ve sustained head trauma, gone hypovolemic, and have a possible infection. And you with your gunshot wound, also probably infected because this place is unsanitary.”

Jemma said, shutting her eyes from the strain of it all. Nausea gripped at the pit of her stomach.

“You ok Simmons?”

Skye’s leg was properly bandaged now that they weren’t taking fire anymore. She rested a hand on the scientist’s shoulder, concern etched onto her face.

“No. I’m not ok Skye. I haven’t been ok since…”

‘Since when’ Jemma wondered. Was it when she realized that seeing the blackened bodies of humans in the last throes of painful death no longer bothered her? Was it when she first shot another human? Was it when she saw Skye’s face this afternoon and she thought she was dead? Was it when Skye left? Was it when Fitz was in that hypobaric chamber? Or was it when Skye was in there? When she watched Ward’s face slowly slip farther away? What was the moment she realized she wasn’t ok anymore?

“…a long time.”

“I don’t mean in an existential way.” Skye said, rolling her eyes. “I mean in a, ‘you look like you’re about to keel over’ sorta way.”

No sooner than the words were out of Skye’s mouth than Jemma was twisted onto her hands and knees, retching.

“Ya, like that.”

Coughing out the few contents of her stomach, Jemma weakly beginning to get to her feet, wiping her mouth.

“Jemma…” Skye reaches out, afraid to let the other girl stand, voice quiet. She winces as she is reminded of her leg injury by the shooting pain that traverses her body.

“I’m fine Skye. Although if you had followed proper medical protocol, we wouldn’t be in quite this dire medical predicament.”

“You’re seriously picking a fight now?” Skye laughed out in disbelief.

Again, somewhere in the depths of her brain, Dr. Jemma Simmons clawed for a moment to say what Jemma Simmons, soldier of S.H.I.E.L.D. would repress. The soldier won out, as it always did when it came to battlefield prudence.

“I don’t know if you noticed but we’re in the middle of a war here. A war of which we’re on opposite sides of.”

Skye looked sadly up at the now pacing Brit.

“Jemma. What happened to you?”

The scientist stopped her pacing. She had been expecting the hacker to engage in the fight. She absolutely did not expect the brown eyes looking up at her sadly, almost full of pity. Again, the Dr. Jemma Simmons tickled the back of her brain, wanting to have a chance to say things she shouldn’t be admitting on a battlefield. And again, the combative soldier won, lashing out in anger.

“What happened to me? What happened to you? You just bloody left. In the middle of the night. No goodbye, just, gone.”

Skye doesn’t respond, just looks up at her.

“Whatever.” Jemma snaps. “I’m just going to get some sleep. Try and do the same. The last thing I need is to worry about both of us being injured and sleep deprived.”

* * *

_“Simmons! Get down here!”_

_Coulson is yelling for her. All that’s running through her mind is the worry and urgency in that voice. But Simmons is trapped, like a bear in some freak circus act; made to perform. Told to jump and no longer bothering to ask how high; but if it wasn’t high enough, that’s when she felt the pain of the lash. Every lash blow rent her skin asunder, peeling back flesh, layer by layer, exposing the subcutaneous tissue. The dust from the circus drifted lazily into the open wounds, adding dull agony to the stinging pain._

Skye grits back the pain as she wraps Jemma up in her arms. Jemma is thrashing, in a catatonic dance of twitching and flailing limbs.

“Calm down Jemma.” Skye whispers in her ears, trying to ignore the pain in her leg and the agonizing murmurs of an unconscious woman.

_She is treading water in an ocean of blood. Its viscosity pulls at her muscles and weighs her limbs down. Phantom arms grab at her legs, pulling her momentarily under the bloody surface. The taste of iron flood her senses as voices are screaming out. She is slowly being drug beneath the surface, unable to kick back against the phantom pull and the weight of the blood is an impossible medium to fight against. Slowly, she drifts further and further from the surface and eventually she gives up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize is anything is off on the medical front, as my medical knowledge is currently predicated on Wikipedia and an understanding of basic science terms. The only first-hand knowledge I have is how doxy will give you fucked up dreams. Also, I continue with the gratuitous amounts of swearing because, let’s be honest, Skye would swear all the time if regular tv would let her.


	5. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paraphrasing the laws of thermodynamics: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. Super busy with work, house guests, and moving to Japan, traveling BACK to the States for school. Now doing schooling so, hopefully this can tide you over a smidge.

Simmons didn’t know when, but at some point during the night, her nightmares had ceased. When she awoke, she was cognizant only of the fact that Skye’s arms were tightly holding her. Gingerly, she lifted Skye’s arm over her head. The hacker grumbled but didn’t awaken.

She assessed the structural integrity of the building they had sought shelter in. The faint scent of mildew clung to the water-logged, musty ceiling beams and black mold lined the crushed in walls. Although Simmons still had a faint feeling of nausea, she felt like, herself. Not S.H.I.E.L.D.’s soldier, but the doctor she once was. And that doctor was now judging their location, and not with soldierly necessity.

Simmons turned back to look at Skye. She didn’t know why she hadn’t noticed it before, but she now appreciated how ashen and pale Skye appeared. Rushing to the hacker, she pulled back the sweat-drenched pants leg to reveal a putrid, festering, pussing leg wound.

“Bloody fucking shit.” Simmons swore as she skirted Skye’s foot to reach her medical bag.

Skye must have heard her cause she heard a delirious, half-hearted giggle behind her.

“Naughty words Miss. Simmons.”

Simmons rolled her eyes, too busy running scenarios through her head. All conclusions ended in impossibility: she needed to get Skye to a S.H.I.E.L.D. hospital. The truly difficult question, was how? Hack their systems? The only individual how had ever managed to accomplish that was ineffective; babbling on in delirium. And this all would be simplified if Skye was just and agent. Simmons stopped, brain running a million miles a minute.

Perhaps she could fake Skye being an agent. The firefight they escape from, there might be an agent who at least resembles the hacker enough to get her in the front door and to the infirmary. After she starts to get better there would be issues…but one task at a time.

* * *

Simmons rolled the dead agent over. Brushing the dark hair out of the corpse’s face, a sigh escaped. Not even remotely Asiatic. Taking a closer look, she realized the hair was also dyed. And that was the last female. Checking her watch, Simmons scrambled off the debris pile. There was no more time. If she didn’t act soon, Skye would die. And that meant she needed to accept some risks.

* * *

Skye sat, the wall propping her up, looking through deadened eyes as Simmons rummaged in the med bag. The hacker didn’t even struggle as Simmons doped her up with as many pain meds and anti-bacterials she felt comfortable with that wouldn’t kill her.

“Ok dear. I’m really sorry about this…” as she rolled Skye into the fire she built.

The smell of burning flesh filled the building and permeated Simmons’ senses; she could even taste it. But she did what she needed to. At least that’s what she reminded herself as she bandaged the smoldered and blackened flesh. Picking Skye up, she made her way back to the base. Trudging under the weight of the hacker and gear (still heavy without the incidental supplies and body armor she left behind), Simmons managed to reach prior to nightfall.

* * *

“Identify.” A rifle was leveled in Simmons' face.

“Simmon, J. and unidentified S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”

The rifle never dipped.

“Why did you bring an unidentified individual here?”

“She was badly burned and I couldn’t get a fingerprint. She helped save me during a fire fight. I know she’s S.H.I.E.L.D. and she can be saved if you would just bloody let me in!”

The suppressor dipped almost imperceptibly. But Simmons noticed. Summing up her courage, she reacted.

“Listen,” Simmons grabbed the end of the rifle and flung it to the side. The guard was not prepared and was jerked awkwardly off his feet. “I don’t have time for this.”

Readjusting the hacker slung across her shoulders and back, she marched purposefully into the base. When she was sure the guard was far behind, tears of anxiety and fear leaked from her eyes. She didn’t bother to brush them away, all that mattered was getting Skye to the emergency room.


	6. The Monkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that my timeline is a little wonky. A quick recap to clear it up: Nitro blows up the elementary school in Stamford, CT. Skye is anti-registration, Simmons is pro-registration. Skye leaves. Coulson makes Fitz and Simmons go be full-on field agents for S.H.I.E.L.D. En route to their mission, Ward double-crosses them, traps Fitz and Simmons in the pod, and ejects them into the ocean. Fitz does his engineering thing; saves Simmons but leaves himself effectively a two year old. Simmons is used extensively as both a field medic and soldier.

The moment she dropped Skye off at the emergency room, she had flashbacks of when the hacker had been shot. For the third time in a year, she had placed one of the people she has cared about the most into a room where she was absolutely powerless; looking in, helpless.

Now the trained professionals were at work. But she didn’t trust them: they didn’t save Skye the first time, alien blood did; they couldn’t fix Fitz, he’s basically a vegetable. What choice did she have though? With a heavy heart, she left the confines of the infirmary to drop off what little gear she returned with and clean her pistol.

She hit the slide lock, removing the upper receiver and quickly disassembled her issued weapon. Picking up the barrel, she inspected it for hardened carbon.

_“Jemma.” Fitz whined._

_Simmons looked up from her sights. “Yes Leopold.”_

_Fitz shifted uncomfortably. “We’re already trained field agents. Why do we need to learn how to shoot in all this gear?”_

_“Because,” Simmons was peering through her sights once again, “we’re not field agents anymore Fitz, we’re soldiers.”_

The steady sound of the toothbrush-like cleaning brush scrapping against the metal barrel lulled Simmons into a stupor.

 

_“Dr. Simmons.”_

_Simmons looked up from the scattered array of weapons pieces, firing pin and retainer clutched in her hands._

_“How is it that an accomplished scientist with three Ph.D.s and who has designed some standard S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons, can’t figure out what’s wrong with this?”_

_An agent brandished the lower receiver of her M4. Simmons stared perplexedly at the weapon._

_“Umm…it’s slightly…rusty?”_

_The agent reached down and picked up a spring from a pile of parts._

_“You forgot to put your buffer spring in.”_

_He dropped both pieces in the pile causing smaller parts to roll across the floor._

_“Kids who drop out of high school can figure this shit out.” He said as he sighed, walking away._

Simmons movements were unconscious. It was hard to believe that at one point she struggled with weapons. She was conscious of her knuckle hurting though. Glancing down, she noticed that the knuckles were bleeding. Her eyebrows knit in confusion. Peering into her other hand, she realized she had switched to her wire brush which had mostly been taking off skin rather than the carbon. The small, dime-sized section of her barrel that had actually received the brushing shone a bright bronze color.

“Fuck.” Simmons swore. Why did she even have a wire brush? The standard issued Sigs did not need a wire brush. Now her weapon was ruined. Slamming the now damaged upper receiver onto the cleaning table. Her knuckles pulsated a dull pain. Resigning herself to the verbal abuse she would receive from destroying a piece of government property, she put her weapon back together, not bothering to finish her cleaning.

The armorer gave her a judgmental look when she handed in her pistol. Ignoring the look, Simmons went back to her room. Sitting down on her bed, she stared at the blank wall, absentmindedly rubbing the torn flesh. The suffocatingly white, blank walls seemed to be slowly moved in towards her, causing her pounding headache to increase. Logic seemed to say that pondering the past 48 hours would be unwise. But Simmons couldn’t remember a recent moment where she was not anesthetized to her thoughts; she was always either drugged, coming off the drug, or preparing to take the drug. Her life was a tale of bland monotony, void of meaning other than kill or be killed.

Skye had changed all that.

From the moment she recognized her features on the battlefield, Simmons had felt that flicker of fire that she had believed had died long ago - that passion for knowledge and understanding. Skye and Simmons were always different and when the world divided itself along ideological lines, they stood face-to-face against each other. They mixed like an oil and water.

But above all of that, Simmons couldn’t help feel alive around the hacker. Since the moment they met all of a year ago, Skye drew her in like a magnet. It was her personality probably, because it drew Fitz, Coulson, Ward, and even May into its orbit.

The more Simmons fought to remember the past, the more her head pounded. Giving an aggravated groan, Simmons went to rub her temples. An intense, piercing pain ran around her skull, coalescing in the lower-right quadrant of her head. Quickly her hand darted to feel where the pain resonated from. When she inspected it, it was dripping fresh blood.

‘When did I hit my head?’ Simmons thought as she stood to make her way to the infirmary. She arrived, hand pressed to her head to help give the wound pressure.

“Dr. Simmons?” an attendant asked her quizzically. “Are you ok?”

Still stunned, Simmons didn’t respond. The attendant did notice the blood starting to leak through her fingers. They called for a gurney.

 

* * *

_“Jemma...”_

_Skye brushed her hair out of her face._

Simmons woke with a start. Her head was ringing and she felt chilly in the hospital room. Maybe it was the head trauma, but all she was cognizant of was that dream, of Skye brushing her hair back; memories of Skye smiling at her; of Skye soothing her through her nightmares.

She let out a frustrated growl. Getting up from her hospital bed, she made her way over old, worn paths. Like always, she was at the Fitz’ room. S.H.I.E.L.D. had wanted to cut Fitz loose months ago, what use was a hollowed out scientist who could no longer be used in any capacity; militarily or scientifically. It was only through a concerted effort by the former team that he stuck around. Simmons saw the anger of the doctors and the nurses as they walked past. Fitz was dead in their minds, a waste of precious resources. And in a time of war, for someone who was already dead, to burn through resources was borderline sacrilege. But Fitz could not be touched.

Simmons entered his room. Sometimes, when she felt like she had fallen too far into the bureaucratic machine and did not think she would ever feel humanity again, she visited Fitz. He reminded her of who she use to be, of the good in people. She would speak, Fitz would doodle.

“Hey Fitz.” Simmons also spoke to him, as though he could process her words and offer advice.

“How are you doing today?”

Fitz showed her a picture of monkeys.

“Very good Fitz! I’m glad to see you’ve had a good day. Mine has been crazy. Actually, the past couple days have been crazy. I found Skye.”

Simmons felt tears forming in her tear ducts.

“I forgot how much I missed her. That might just be because you’re not already as much anymore. But god, it was so good to see her face. And then some shenanigans happened. I passed out and managed to crack my skull open. Don’t worry Fitz, I’m ok now.”

She touched Fitz’s arm. He looked up from his drawings of monkeys, smirking his quirky smile.

“When I awoke, Skye had been dragging me away from what appeared to be a firefight. There was a Hydra soldier that I took care of.”

Simmons trailed off, remembering what felt like ages ago, but was only a few days.

“The way she looked at me Fitz. Like I wasn’t human anymore…anyway, I had to patch myself up. Then we started fighting. Then she got shot. And we continued fighting. For the life of me, I wanted to stop. To just hug her and be happen to have her company. But I couldn’t. All I could do was verbally hit her, to hate the decisions she made.”

Simmons felt a few tears roll down her cheeks.

“Maybe not the decisions she made. I think I hate the decisions I made. And the worst part Fitz. The worst part was after all of that fighting, she helped me through one hell of a night of thrashing and nightmares.”

She wiped her tears away roughly. She hated having Fitz watch her cry. Not that he knew. Still…

“Fitz, I’m scared. I’m scared for Skye. What if they figure out who she is? How do I get her out of here? What if she doesn’t make it? I’ve already lost you. I can’t lose her too.”

Fitz was studying Simmons’ face. He looked quizzical, then pensive, then back to doodling.

“Anyway…”

Fitz picked up the page he was doodling on, motioning to Simmons to take it. Simmons smiled and took the paper. Little monkeys ran around the border, but dead center was a big heart. Fitz smiled happily.

“Thank you Fitz. I love you too.”

Fitz became agitated at Simmons’ words. He motioned for his paper again. Confused, Simmons handed it back over. Over the heart he started drawing a landscape with beautiful clouds and a sun rising. Looking triumphant, he handed the drawing back. Simmons gingerly took the paper, truly confused at Fitz’s unusual behavior.

“Yes Fitz. It’s a gorgeous sunrise.”

Fitz threw his head back. Snatching the paper, he stared pointedly at Simmons. She looked back at him, stunned at would appear to be Fitz’s first attempt to communicate with her. He pointed to the heart.

“Yes, love. I get that Fitz.”

He then pointed to the blue sky.

“And a gorgeous sunrise.”

Fitz shook his head and jabbed his finger to the sky.

“The sky?” Simmons brain was not processing.

“Oh my god Fitz! Do you understand what I’ve been saying?”

Fitz didn’t respond. He kept pointing back and forth between the heart and the sky.

                                                                            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be far more angst than I had initially intended, and far more Fitz. But I love angst and Fitz so I just ran with it! I hope you guys are enjoying this fic. I definitely have a trajectory and I do apologize for the long time between posting chapters; my life is crazy busy. Any feedback would be great!


	7. Reductio ad absurdum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I haven't forgotten about this fic, I've just been crazy busy with work. Originally I was going to go Socratic with this fic, developing a large philosophical/ethical/security/political/etc. debate but it made more sense that our war-weary ladies would no longer care about grand, overarching debates in the face of death and destruction.
> 
> Just a couple reminders: this is a crossover with Marvel's Civil War comic book arc. This chapter has a spoiler from that series. However, it's a bit vague so it doesn't ruin the arc. Also, this fic is not tv show compliant, it is not MCU compliant (which would also be tv show compliant), it is not S.H.I.E.L.D. comic compliant (which is MCU/tv show canon).

She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. The moment Skye awoke, Simmons was at her room.

“Good Agent Simmons. Agent Johnson is doing well.” the attendant informed her.

“I’m sorry, Agent who?”

“Johnson. Daisy Johnson. We had issues identifying her since she was so badly burned, but we were able to get a DNA sample. It’s a good thing you got her here when you did, we almost lost her.”

The attendant placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder before wandering off. Paper crinkled and Simmons looked down, slowly releasing pressure on Fitz’s picture she had not realized she had been balling up. Of course Skye would have developed a pseudonym, why hadn’t she thought of that before she rolled her into a fire? She had almost killed her. ‘…we almost lost her…’

In a daze, Simmons wandered over to the window of Skye’s room. Déjà vu struck her as she noticed Skye attempting to leave her bed. Rapping the window, Simmons admonished the hacker as she entered the room.

“Absolutely not Skye. You need to heal.”

“Look who’s talking.” Skye shot back, concerned eyes scanning the biochemist’s body for injuries.

Sure Simmons had just admonished Skye for needing to heal, but seeing her alive, went against her better judgement and threw caution to the wind. Throwing herself at Skye, she hugged the bed-ridden girl.

“Thank god you’re ok.” Skye was flummoxed, but Simmons felt the hug returned. A head even rested comfortably on her shoulder. When she went to stroke the hacker’s hair (like she did when they gave her the alien drugs to save her life), she felt the paper slide from her fingers. Simmons allowed herself a moment to be weak, a moment to cry. Tears ran down her cheeks and pooled in Skye’s hair; if Skye noticed, she did not say anything. Rather, the hacker’s grip grew tighter.

Simmons did not know how long they remained embraced, but it felt like a beautiful eternity. As the attendant stepped in, Simmons quickly broke off the hug. The attendant had not seen since she was staring at Skye’s chart. Without looking up she spoke to the two women.

“We need this bed space for urgent care patients. Since you no longer need urgent care Agent Johnson, you will be assigned with Agent Simmons in her room. She is a qualified medical professional and can assist you with your final recovery.”

Simmons looked at Skye then to the attendant.

“Ma’am, this agent just recovered from a life threatening infection. Is it really wise to take her out of the hospital so quickly?”

“The decision has already been approved. We feel you are adequate for the task. You should go prepare your living space. Agent Johnson will be transferred by the end of the day.”

* * *

Simmons looked over at the hacker laying on a hospital bed that had been wheeled into her room. She marveled at the speed of Skye’s recovery; mainly through the technology of S.H.I.E.L.D. Anywhere else, repairing burned flesh would be a long and painful process. With S.H.I.E.L.D., it was almost as though they re-grew normal flesh from scratch. In fact, there was almost no physical evidence that Simmons had rolled the hacker into a fire. Now, the infection that almost killed her, that still had to be fought the old fashioned way.

Skye sat up in her hospital bed, drawing her knees close to her chest. The two women simply stared at each other in silence. What was there to say?

“You were right.” Simmons said finally.

Skye looked up at the scientist, confusion stamped across her features.

“Right about what?”

“This.” Simmons responded vaguely. “The notion that people, not even superheroes, should be subjected to government control." She fingered the edge of the blanket sticking un-militarily out from her bed frame, feeling the anger build. "I mean, they turned a god into a cyborg for godsake! And it killed another superhero without even considering. People, superheroes, everyone, deserves to be free.” 

“You think this is freedom?” Skye asked incredulously. “You think what is happening now, this…anarchy, is freedom?”

“It’s better than what this oppressive, all-encompassing structure had compelled us to do; what it has turned us into. At least with anarchy we can justify our actions through the need to survive.” Simmons responded.

Anger was starting to rise to Simmons’ throat. It was as though Skye managed to arouse intense feelings of combativeness whenever they talked since this war started. She was only vaguely cognizant of a time when all their conversations were happy; filled with smiles and laughs and playful kidding.

“I don’t think you understand how bad it is out there, free from the structure. It’s not survival, it’s anarchy; like in the actual sense of the word. This whole ‘freedom to do what you will’ and ‘all access to all information’ it hurts us more than it helps us.”

For the first time, Skye was not matching anger with anger. Instead, her words were tainted with bitter resentment at the abandonment of ideals once held dear. Simmons scoffed.

“Security is an illusion.” Why did she always feel this burning anger? It was almost as though she craved the debate, thrived on the emotion, relished the battle of words.

“Are you paraphrasing Keller?” Skye scoffed. “Of all outcomes I expected of Dr. Jemma Simmons,” (there was the counter-attack) “denouncing security and doubting the motives and rules of the establishment was not one of them.” Skye had not engaged like Simmons had hoped. Why did she want the hacker to verbally hit her back?

“As was your concession to the fallibility of the unregulated flow of information.” Simmons knew this was a tender nerve. A silence filled the newly formed void as they digested what had transpired. Their words were no longer the eloquent proselytizing of ideals but complete changes to their world view stained red with the blood of those who died for their ideals.

Skye let out a snort of laughter. Simmons shot her a nasty glance.

“Here I am, lying in a bed after I almost died. And all we can think to talk about is arguing about ideas that I no longer give two shits about.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Simmons’ lips. She can’t remember the last time she smiled: perhaps it was when she saw Fitz start to draw on paper.


	8. The Side Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the holiday season, all you get is a short chapter where there is no happiness. ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER! Mwahahaha. This actually started out more sappy, but I figured I could get a bigger pay off if I made you miserable first.
> 
> This starts the day after Skye is placed in Simmons’ room. We’ll attribute S.H.I.E.L.D. possessing technology that could never exist to it because dramatic tension can’t work if they’ve been re-connecting over the span of a months.

“I don’t get why you’re going…” Simmons queried the hacker. “You have a S.H.I.E.L.D. identity. You don’t need to run out.” Simmons felt herself getting worked up.

Skye ignored the scientist and continued to jam gear into an extra sea bag Simmons had laying around. The Brit groped for Skye’s arm and spun her around. Face-to-face she stared into the hacker’s brown eyes, forgetting what she was going to say. When did her hands get clammy? There felt like there was a river of perspiration between her hand and Skye’s arm.

“Agent Simmons, J. Report to briefing room” came over the intercom. It broke, whatever, had occurred.

Simmons’ hand dropped. “Guess this is goodbye.”

Without another words, she turned and left her room.

* * *

Jemma made her way to the armory. She was vaguely aware of Agents moving quickly past her.

Suddenly she felt herself be pulled expectantly into a side room. Out of instinct, she grabbed the hand on her arm, twisted it in an unnatural way, and pressed the unknown assailant against the wall.

“Fuck Simmons” Skye swore. A beat passed. “Simmons, can you please let me go?” Still Jemma did not release her grasp; she may have even tightened it a bit. A sharp intake of pain hissed through Skye’s teeth.

“Jemma?” Skye’s voice came out in a mixture of pain; of both the physical kind and the emotional. Although neither of which Jemma could comprehend at the moment. But she reluctantly let the hacker go. Soldier-mode, drug addled Jemma did not want to let an assailant go free. Yet something beyond comprehension triggered an impulse that Jemma felt superseded her rational thought.

Rotating her now free arm, Skye looked at Jemma quizzically. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing Skye. You attacked me, I responded.” There was a coldness in her voice.

Jemma felt a hand on her face. She just realized she could not actually see defined features of Skye. But she felt Skye’s presence: her hand, her breathing, the heat from her body. Through the drug haze, doctor Simmons yearned to lean into Skye’s hand. Before she was given a mission, she should have told Skye how she felt. Fitz was right, she was in love with the hacker.

Instead Jemma smacked Skye’s hand away.

“You already made it clear you were leaving.” Push her away: that’s what a good soldier does. “So leave. Good luck.” Jemma turned to leave. She felt Skye pull her back into a hug. The hacker’s arms wrapped tightly around Jemma’s waist and her head rested on Jemma’s shoulder.

“Please be safe.” Skye whispered in her ear.

Doctor Simmons, the women in love with the dark-haired hacker, fought through the drug haze, desperate to say what she felt.

“Safety is irrelevant. The mission is all that matters.” Was all Jemma responded before she strode out of the side room.


	9. Venting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting this out with a flash of Simmons’ story line (coming out in two more chapters), just to make us fret as Skye is fretting.

_“How long have I been here?” Simmons asked herself. She stared up at the sky, as though she was looking at it for the first time in her life._

_“A day, two. A week, a month?”_

_In fact, it dawned that Simmons didn’t know why she was lying on her back in the first place. She could have sworn a moment ago she was traveling to her target. Moving her arms, she went to push herself up. Instead, she ineffectually pressed against the ground._

_“Well, bloody hell.” Simmons murmured as she let herself lay on the earth._

* * *

Skye paced in their (her?) room, trying to get a handle on her emotions. Simmons had been gone for weeks. S.H.I.E.L.D. managed to thwart her hacks so she had lost track of Simmons’ movements days ago. The uncertainty gnawed at her and drove her mad. Sometimes, she reminded herself that she could just leave; erase all records of Agent Daisy Johnson and disappear back into the shadows. But what if Simmons came back? What if the war ended? What if, what if, what if?

Her first day while she attempted get use to the fact that Simmons wasn’t around, she had asked about Agent Fitz. If anyone was confused as to why Agent Johnson, S.H.I.E.L.D. computer scientist, was asking for a broken engineering/field Agent, no one let on; just fingers pointed down the numerous halls. The first time she had arrived, she felt her heart shatter, staring at her friend so broken; a shadow of the brilliant engineer he was. But she soon realized that, although he was unable to communicate like before, his brilliance was not gone, just re-directed in new ways. Predominantly this manifested in the form of pictures. But not straight forward pictures, but abstractions.

So when the worry threatened to completely overtake Skye, she would wander down to the medical bay that housed Fitz. His calm reliance on developing pictures vice talking through everything always acted as a counterbalance to Skye’s tumultuous nerves. Frequently though, she wished she could just hear his adorable Scottish stumbling when he got flustered, or the rapid succession of words that held no meaning when he got excited. But that wasn’t fair, just because Fitz was different, it doesn’t make him less of who he is. And wishing he was someone that no longer existed was not fair to him.

She would ask the doctors what had happened to Fitz. They would look at her quizzically. “I met Agent Fitz prior to start of the war…” she would reply, not that it did much to stop the looks.

* * *

“Agent Fitz once a great field agent. No one saw that coming. Unlike his compatriot, he reviled in being able to take down as many Rising Tide and Hydra agents as he did programming toys. Anyway, he was chasing down a particularly well-known and dangerous Hydra operative. What he had not realized that the Hydra operative had anticipated Agent Fitz’s plan, led him into a trap. A trap that led to a long trip to the bottom of the ocean. He managed to spring himself but he lost consciousness partially on the way up. He crafted a way to propel him to the surface but his brain was severely deprived of oxygen. That resulted in some…permanent…brain damage.”

* * *

Skye paced around Fitz’s medical bay, ranting about Simmons and even going into the whole ‘side room’ incident. Fitz just painted away, almost as though he was oblivious to Skye’s ranting. But Skye knew he was listening, processing.

“And she just brushed me away Fitz. Fucking walked out like she didn’t know who I was.”

Fitz stopped, pencil halted on the page. A short scribble, a pause, another slightly longer scribble. Skye sighed as she flopped down on the ground next to Fitz.

“What ‘cha working on here buddy?”

Fitz stopped again, admired his work, and smiling, handed it to Skye. Smirking, Skye took the picture, and gave Fitz a kiss on the cheek. She might not always understand the pictures, but she knew, he made it for her.

* * *

Skye walked down the passageway back to their room, staring at Fitz's picture. The blobs of color and deliberate brush work. She's sure there meaning behind it, but what, she wasn't sure.

When she got back to their room, she affixed it to her wall amongst all her other pictures from Fitz. Admiring the collection, she backed up until the backs of legs hit metal and she sat down. It took a moment for Skye to realize that she was sitting on Simmons' bed and it hit her, her absence.

She ran her fingertips over the week old sheets, but they didn't register feeling. Looking at the tips, the scars of the fire damage, Skye couldn't help but be reminded of what Simmons' was willing to do to save her. Steeling her nerves, she pushed off the mattress, heading directly to the control room.


	10. Head Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that, while I stole the brain damage from the show, I never got into it in my crossover. Plus I missed writing Fitz since he’s my fav. So here’s a little interlude from our action, to give a bit of backstory to Fitz, and to let us see the world briefly from the outside of the story.

_Have you even been trapped in your own head? And by trapped, I mean: you see and hear but are completely unable to articulate those thoughts? It’s infuriating._

_What hurts the most though, is seeing my best friends suffer, and being unable to help them, except through the most abstract and circuitous fashions._

_Like that picture. I know Jemma has had her brain screwed with by those drugs S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps dosing her with, but god damn, how does she not see that she is in love with Skye? Even before my brain was physically damaged, I could see they were more than just friends._

_Memories, those are fuzzy. It’s ridiculous that complex mathematical computations are what I remember but can’t produce; that memories seem to be fuzzy and statically like an old tv not properly tuned but I couldn’t talk to anyone about them anyway; and that I am thoroughly unable to look into the eyes of my friends and just tell them what I’m thinking._

_One fuzzy memory that generally feels less fuzzy than many memories is one of everyone just hanging around the Bus. Jesus, how long ago was that? I don’t know why this memory is clear, there’s nothing special about it. Just myself, Coulson, Jemma, Ward, and Skye laughing and joking._

_Anyway Skye is not much better about hiding her feelings than Jemma was. Well, I guess they were both good at it since neither seem to know the other is crazy about them, this civil war is just a smokescreen the two of them hide behind so they don’t have to deal with their feelings._

_That’s sad._

_You know, Skye appears sad as well._

Without thinking, Fitz drew.

_‘I am worried about that medicine Simmons is taking.’ Skye said._

_“Don’t I know it. I’ve been thinking that everyday…” I want to say._

The pencil moved across the paper; red on the paper like blood.

_How do you make your friends see what is obvious to you, but what that can’t see themselves? How do you say, “Stop hurting yourselves? There’s no need to punish yourselves for having differing views. There’s no need to put on a mask to hide behind.”_

_‘See you tomorrow Fitz.’_

Fitz sighed in exasperation. Skye stopped; she had never heard him indicate he understood what she was saying.

_‘Fitz, can you understand me?’_

_“No shit.”_

Fitz stood up and threw his pencil down in anger.

_‘Holy shit. Fitz, have you always understood me?’_

Fitz began pacing, throwing his hands up as though he was having a spirited debate with an invisible and inaudible person.

_“Bloody hell Skye, I understand. Why do you think I do these bloody pictures? Because I’m the next Renior? No, because I can’t produce the bloody words to say it to you. Science only knows why I can’t!”_

_And then there’s that less fuzzy memory. Everyone is smiling, laughing._

Fitz stopped pacing. His breathing slowed and he felt arms wrap around him.

_‘I’m sorry Fitz. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure it’s hard for you; I can’t even imagine.’_

_“If I could, I’d let you know that it’s ok to be hurting too. Sure, this is hard for me, but I know you’re hurting too.”_

Instead, Fitz just hugged Skye back. As Skye released the Scot, he scrambled over to his picture. A few pencil marks and Fitz skittered back, thrusting the product into Skye’s hand.


	11. Mission Target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support in continuing this story. I know my chapters a few and far between but I appreciate you all sticking with it. As always, my medical knowledge extends from webmd so, unfortunately you’ll have to take my word that these things are happening as I continue to make life suck for the lovely Dr. Jemma Simmons and Skye. I have some cheesy stuff stuffed in here...which means that I have to make following chapters super angsty.

_“Target significance?”_

_“That’s strictly need to know.”_

_Simmons keyed out of her radio to sigh. It was one thing to stop taking the drugs. Another thing entirely for her to show emotions over the radio, alerting command as to the fact that she had stopped taking the drugs. She keyed back in._

_“Affirmative.”_

_..._

_“Target is in my sights.”_

_“Acknowledged. Authorized to fire Agent Simmons.”_

_Simmons breathed in deeply, slowly exhaled, and let the bullet fly._

_“Confirm kill.”_

_“Affirmative. Return to base.”_

_Keying out of the handset, Simmons stood up, packed up her rifle and returned to base._

* * *

“The sky’s so beautiful.” It had been so long since she had really looked at the sky; so long. It was a deep blue, fluffy white clouds floating through. Before today, every time she looked at the sky, it had been under the influence of the drugs. Under the drugs, it wasn’t that she had not looked at the sky, nor that it was any less blue, it was just that it made no impression on her.

Why was she laying on the ground? The fact just struck her that she was staring straight up into the sky and why, she didn’t know.

“How long have I been here?” Simmons asked herself again. “A day, two. A week, a month?” In fact, it dawned that Simmons didn’t know why she was lying on her back in the first place. She could have sworn a moment ago she was traveling to her target. Moving her arms, she went to push herself up. Instead, she ineffectually pressed against the ground.

“Well, bloody hell.” Simmons murmured as she let herself lay on the earth.

What would make her unable to stand? The obvious choice reason is that she is somehow paralyzed, but why, how, when?

“Well, I guess let’s start with what I remember.” Simmons spoke out loud to herself.

* * *

 

_There was a thin fog, creeping its way up the lush green hill, winding its tendrils up and over the recessed valleys amongst the protruding ridges._

_Jemma wound her way through the trees, running the operation over in her head. Travel to the waypoint 652 on route echo…_

The movement to waypoint 652 along route echo was uneventful. All that tedim allowed her personality to claw at the edges of her brain, trying to will her into feeling how she assaulted Skye. How she had pressed her forearm into the back of her neck as she pinned her against the wall. Realizing that only slightly more pressure would have snapped her neck like a twig.

_...assume an overlook position on hill 2598…_

“Arrived, WP652 over.”

Jemma was met by static. She would transmit again in an hour, once she established her overwatch position.

As quickly as she could, Jemma built a sniper’s nest. When she had become a sniper was beyond her rationale right now.

_...wait for target traveling north to south through the valley…_

“Target id?”

Radio squelch fizzled and cracked and finally broke.

“Known Hydra agent.”

Jemma pushed down the doubt rising to her throat. Even good soldiers can’t service a target if they don’t know what the target even is.

_...Estimated time of arrival, unknown…_

_...but within the week…_

_...Service the target._

Somewhere between servicing the target and returning to base, something had gone catastrophically wrong. Aside from not taking the pills, she executed her mission, a mission success. So where was her transport?

“Extraction point?’

Radio static.

“Extraction point?

More static.

_Exfiltration was implied._

“Oh god, I’m going to die here…”  
  
_“Please be safe..."_


	12. Safety is Not Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t decided if I’m going to give them a happy ending or not...unfortunately, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is not doing it for me much anymore. All this, heterosexual relationships they keep shoving on me.

_"Please stay safe."_

Skye rushed into Fitz’s room, shutting the door behind her forcefully. The sudden slam jolted Fitz from his concentrated work of art.

“Sorry Fitz.” Skye apologized as she hurried over to him. “I don’t have much time. I figured out where Jemma is. They left her there.” Skye was pacing, shaking her hands as though she could literally shake the anger out through her fingertips like shaking off water droplets. “They fucking left her.” A shaky hand came up to brush the tears from her eyes.

“I gotta go Fitz. I just came by to say goodbye.” Fitz stood and placed his hand on her shoulders. He stared at Skye, and she could see the understanding in his face, coupled with the frustration at not being able to say anything.

She smiled a weak, half-hearted smirk. “Thanks Fitz. You’re the best friend anyone could ask for.” Patting his hand, she longed for the feeling to return to her fingertips so that her senses could remind her that Fitz was really here, and not some incorporeal ghost occupying space; to grasp at a figment of her past that she knew no longer existed.

Without another word, Skye left Fitz’s prison. She didn’t know how much of a head start she had. At some point, S.H.I.E.L.D. would discover that former Agent Daisy Johnson had accessed the classified operations in regards to Agent Jemma Simmons, her former roommate. Not that those Agents existed anymore. In their place, there was a plethora redacted files, devoid of any information that could tie them to who they were to become.

* * *

Skye scrambled over debris, the S.H.I.E.L.D. base slowly drifted into the background. Glancing occasionally down at a G.P.S. she snagged in which she had placed Simmons’ coordinates into. She needed to put as much distance between her and the base before they realized she was gone. After traveling for an hour, she shut off the G.P.S. device and turned west at 90 degrees. Hopefully, S.H.I.E.L.D. will assume she continued in the same direction.

* * *

Simmons lay on the ground. She knew she was left here to die. Might as well make an effort to survive. With a concerted effort, the doctor managed to flip herself onto her stomach. Now, lying face down in the gravelly dirt, Simmons panted with the effort.

‘I really am going to die out here…’ she thought to herself. ‘And just after reuniting with Skye.’

Skye. Always that indescribable variable that caused equations to no longer make sense. God, she sounded like Fitz now; analyzing human situations as though it was a logical and discrete set of variables that conform to mathematical principles.

* * *

Skye crashed through the underbrush. Simmons had already been left out in the field for a day. She didn’t study the mission report, but she was not supposed to return.

Running, Skye processed her feelings. Ever since she saw Simmons on that battlefield after so long, she realized how much she had missed the biochemist. No… not missed. She missed Fitz. It was another feeling for Simmons. When she laid eyes on her, her stomach fluttered. And in that destroyed building.

But Skye already figured out she was in love. It was a matter of getting through Simmons’ drug haze to convince her of the same.

* * *

There is the myth about love. That somehow, true love, conquers all. It doesn’t take into account time and space. How many romantic comedies hinge on the timing of the guy catching the girl moments before she leaves for good? What are the odds that two people meet after a time and are put into situations where they are near-death? What is the average number of near-death experiences an average person encounters in their life? How exponentially smaller is that number of near-death experiences that occur within a few weeks of each other?

“Simmons?!”

Now she was really losing it. Her existential musing about the un-reality of her situation and of the ridiculous timing of someone you are in love with coming at the very moment before you leave the scene had seemed to be enhanced with her brain making her believe she was hearing Skye call out for her. Based on statistics and probability, she wasn’t going to be saved, she was just imagining her salvation.


	13. Runaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I ended on a cliffhanger…I’m an asshole like that. I decided how I was going to end this based on my recent trend in works. Enjoy.

"Simmons?!” Skye called out.

She prayed Simmons was still cognizant to hear her and somehow let her know exactly where she was. Moving to a brisk walk, Skye walked the tree line, searching the underbrush for the doctor, calling her name periodically.

A small moan caused Skye to whip to her right. Rushing into the tree line, she found Simmons lying face down; hair matted with assorted cuts and bruises trailing down her body.

“Jesus Jemma.” Skye swore as she rolled the woman over.

Her lips were cracked and dry. Reaching for some water that she grabbed prior to leaving, she gently tipped the bottle to Simmons’ lips. She was so weak, the water simply splashed off her lips more than traveling into her mouth.

"This must be the end.” Simmons mumbled. “My mind is literally making me think Skye is here.”

Skye saw Simmons try and lift her hand, but it traveled no more than six inches off the ground before falling limp to the dirt.

* * *

 

Simmons woke up in a room she didn’t recognize.

“Am I dead?”

Skye looked over at her. She smiled softly and made her way over, sitting at the edge of the bed and resting her hand over Simmons’ arm.

"No, Jemma. You’re safe.”

“Safety is not reality.” Skye chuckled.

“You’re right. But no, you’re not dead. I got you to a safe house.”

“What about S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

"I wiped our records before we left. We can just start over.” Simmons blinked as she sat herself up in the bed.

“Well then. Hello there. My name is Jemma Simmons.” She reached out her hand. Skye took it with a smile.

“My name is Skye. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the lack of linearity but it isn't a linear story.


End file.
